


suspend, verb (used with object)

by bree_black



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s07e23 Survival of the Fittest, M/M, Post Season 7, Purgatory, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bree_black/pseuds/bree_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Purgatory, Dean and Cas have nothing but time on their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	suspend, verb (used with object)

**suspend** , verb (used with object)

**1.**  
to hang by attachment to something above: _to suspend a chandelier from the ceiling_

_______

“Cas?” Dean calls into the darkness, but the only answer he receives is a long, high-pitched howl. Dean reaches into his coat instinctively, though he knows if Cas is right and he’s in Purgatory a gun wouldn’t do much good, even if it was loaded with silver bullets.

Dean had thought at first that the forest was silent, but the longer he stands here the more he realizes that’s not true. He’s surrounded by small sounds, ones he’s been trained to recognize his entire life. The squeaks, howls, cackles and gasping breaths of every creature he’s ever hunted are all around him when he listens for them, and getting closer.

And then there are the glowing red eyes, the only lights in a dense mist of washed out blue-green.

Dean runs. He’s careful not to trip on tree roots or scratch his face on tree branches, but he runs all the same. Runs for what feels like hours, feeling the hot breath of monsters against the back of his neck, afraid to look over his shoulder, blind until he catches sight of a lone yellow light up ahead.

When he gets close enough he sees it’s a candle’s flame, flickering in the window of a tiny log cabin tucked into the forest. Dean sprints toward it, throwing open the wooden door, hurling himself inside, and slamming it closed behind him. A split second later he hears sharp claws digging gouges in the wood.

Dean turns the deadbolt and tries to catch his breath.

 

“Dean,” Cas says from the doorway.

“Nice of you to show up,” Dean says. He stays on the sofa, and doesn’t take his eyes off of the crackling fire he’s been staring into since he arrived.

“I was searching for a way out of this place,” Cas says by way of explanation. He doesn’t apologize for his absence. “There isn’t one.”  
“You mean you didn’t find one,” Dean corrects.

“I mean there isn’t one,” Cas retorts. “I was very thorough.”

“Not good enough,” Dean snaps. “Look again. I don’t belong here, and I’m not leaving my brother alone out there.”

Dean digs his fingernails into the corduroy of the armrest under his hand, and it disintegrates in his grip, transforming into a handful of black ash. A moment later the fire goes out, and Dean drops to the ground hard, as the couch disappears from under him.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and then falls silent as he looks around him. The cottage and its contents are gone, and Dean is sitting on the hard ground, surrounded by only the dark, misty forest he’d run through earlier. Red eyes glint in the distance.

“Oh,” Cas says in response to Dean’s startled expression, “you don’t know? None of this is real.”

 

Cas picks his way through the forest, and Dean follows because he’s run out of other options, keeping his hand on his gun. Eventually they arrive at the dark mouth of a cave. Dean follows Cas into the damp darkness, scrambling over moss-covered rocks.

Cas pulls a small fabric pouch out of one of the pockets of his coat and pours a single thick line of dark powder across the entrance to the cave. “We’re very lucky I was recently consulting with a witch doctor,” he says, “about the bees. We should be reasonably safe here, for the time being.”

Dean exhales hard; he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. His legs feel suddenly weak, and he sits, leaning back against the stone wall of the cave. A moment later Cas joins him, sitting a foot from Dean’s left.

“What did you mean, none of this is real?” Dean asks. “Where did that cabin go? Where did it come from in the first place?”

Cas squints, like it hurts him to think. He reaches into his coat pocket, rummaging until he pulls out two white plastic chess pieces, a knight and a king. He plants them in the thin layer of dirt on the ground, facing one another.

“Earth, Heaven and Hell are all basically the same,” he says finally. “Atoms and molecules, matter and energy, waves and particles. They’ve got different rules and different rulers, but all the designers use the same basic building blocks.”

Dean wonders if Cas is drifting off again, wishes he knew how to focus this new, scattered version of Cas who is only half-familiar. “Okay, and...?”

“Purgatory’s different,” Cas says simply. “It’s made of different…stuff. It’s not real - at least not to us.”

“So, what? This is all hallucination? A dream?” Dean suspects getting out of Purgatory won’t be as easy as waking up.

“In a sense, though on Earth you spend more time awake than you do dreaming. That’s how you know what’s real and what isn’t.”

“And here?”

“Purgatory is awake and we’re the dream. To all the other souls this _is_ real. But we’re not dead, you see. We’re not supposed to be here.”

“Obviously,” Dean mutters.

“Have you ever played that children’s game, ‘Which of these things does not belong?’” Cas asks. The glint of madness is back in his eyes. He moves the plastic knight half an inch closer to the king.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says with a heavy sigh.

Cas sounds almost proud. “You have your real body and I have this vessel, whoever it belongs to. You have your gun and I have these chess pieces, made of carbon and steel. We’re the things that don’t belong.”

“We’re stuck in the wrong dimension,” Dean says.

Cas frowns. “My analogy is more colourful, but yes. When you thought about escape, about Sam, you reminded yourself that there’s another, more _real_ , world out there. You shattered the illusion, and the cabin dissolved.”

Dean remembers squeezing the cut on Sam’s hand, remembers the way he’d ordered Sam to stay with him, how he’d had to act as the tether between his brother and the real world. It seems fair, now, that whether Sam knows it or not, the tables have turned.

 

 

Dean has no idea how much time has passed since they arrived. He also has no idea how long they’ve been sitting in this cave, though the grumbling in his stomach indicates he’s missed at least a few meals.

“I don’t suppose you have a sandwich in your pocket?” Dean asks. Some time ago Cas had pulled a deck of cards out of his coat, and Dean’s lost count of how many games of Solitaire he’s played.

“No,” Cas says. “Perhaps you should have appreciated the one I gave you…earlier.” Dean wonders if Cas is having as much trouble keeping track of time as he is.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Really, _that’s_ what you’re holding a grudge about?”

Cas shrugs. Without looking up from the dusty cards he’s carefully lined up in the dirt, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out the plastic baggie of honey he’d offered Crowley, holding it out to Dean.

Dean takes it. “No loaf of bread to go with it?” he quips. Cas ignores him, carefully adding a card to a perfectly straight column.

Dean wipes his hand on his relatively clean jeans, then dips his pointer finger into the sticky liquid, slightly warm from being kept close to Cas’ body. He licks his finger, and the burst of sweetness against his tongue just makes him hungrier. He dips two fingers back in the bag, scooping up more honey, then sucking it off his fingers. It might be the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“Thanks,” Dean says. He expects Cas to ignore him again, but when he looks over Cas is staring at him intently. Or, more accurately, staring at his fingers, still in his mouth. The expression is so unfamiliar on Cas’ face that by the time Dean recognizes it as lust, Cas has already looked down at his cards again.

“You might want to ration that,” Cas says, voice neutral. “It’s the only food we have.”

“Right,” Dean says, licking a drop of honey out of the corner of his mouth self-consciously. He’s not sure if the twisting feeling in his stomach is just hunger, or something else.

  
**2.**  
to attach so as to allow free movement: _to suspend a door on a hinge._  


_______

Dean’s not sure how much more of this he can take. He’s certain they’ve been sitting in this cave for at least the equivalent of days, but it’s still dark as midnight outside. The sun hasn’t risen, and the moon hasn’t even moved across the sky. Dean’s stomach growls incessantly, his ass hurts from sitting on the hard ground, and every time he stands up to stretch out his cramped legs he feels dizzy.

“How long have we been here?” he asks.

“The question is irrelevant,” Cas answers. “Time is relative, and I doubt it works the same way here as it does on Earth.” He sits cross-legged in front of his coat, upon which he’s spread the contents of his pockets and of Dean’s, the entirety of their worldly possessions.

From Cas: the bag of honey, a worn deck of cards, five sunflower seeds, the half-empty pouch of hoodoo powder, two plastic chess pieces and four blue flowers, their petals wilting. From Dean: a pistol, a Swiss army knife and a wallet full of fake ID.

“Tell that to my stomach,” Dean says, snagging one of the sunflower seeds and chewing it thoughtfully. “I’m going to die of starvation.”

“Impossible,” Cas says. “You can’t die in Purgatory; you’re supposed to be dead when you arrive.”

Dean groans. “You mean I can’t even shoot myself in the head?”

“You could,” Cas says thoughtfully. He arranges the blue flowers in a circle. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Dean says. “What are we supposed to do?”

“We’re already doing it,” Cas says, infuriatingly calmly.

“We’re supposed to just sit on our asses?” Dean says sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Cas answers. “Purgatory is where you go to wait.”

 

“Are you absolutely sure we didn’t end up in Hell somehow?” Dean asks, an undeterminable number of hours later.

“You’re better acquainted with Hell than I am,” Cas says. “But yes, I’m sure. If this were Hell I’d be able to use my powers, maybe even break us out. But I’m on the wrong frequency here, the only things I can manipulate are the things we brought with us.” He snaps his fingers and one of the flowers disappears from his coat, reappearing tucked behind his right ear.

“Yes, that’s very useful,” Dean mutters.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I know how little value I have to you without my powers.”

Guilt hits Dean like a brick wall. “Fuck,” he says, “Cas, that’s not what I –”

“Wait,” Cas says. “I’m having an idea.”

Dean bites back the rest of his sentence, secretly relieved he doesn’t have to say it. He waits in silence.

And waits.

And waits.

“Well hey, don’t leave me in suspense here,” he says finally.

Cas blinks rapidly. “Right. Yes,” he says, more to himself than to Dean. Then his eyes come into focus. “I can manipulate you,” he says.

“What?” Dean sputters.

“You. You’re made of matter. My powers will work on you.”

“Great. Can you fill my stomach with food?”

“No. Where would I get the food from? I can’t violate the law of conservation of matter,” he says, like Dean even knows what that is.

“Okay, can you bring me a hot shower?”

“I don’t think you understand,” Cas says. “I can’t _create_ anything. I have to work with what we have.”

Dean looks down at their scant possessions. “I fail to see how this idea is particularly helpful,” he says.

“I have your brain,” Cas says. “I can make you forget.”

“Make me forget what?” Dean says, suspicious.

“Everything,” Cas says, getting excited now. “If you don’t have anything to compare it to, if you can’t remember anything else, Purgatory will seem real.”

Dean bites his lip, remembering the crackling fire in the cozy cabin. It feels like decades ago. “The illusion will come back,” he says.

“Yes. And Purgatory will feel less like Hell and more like a moderately comfortable waiting room.”

Dean’s stomach lets out a particularly loud growl. If he immerses himself in the illusion he’ll lose touch with his body, won’t he? He’ll be choosing a dimension, not living caught between them.

“I can do it right now,” Cas says. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you. You won’t feel any discomfort.”

Dean remembers asking Cas to wipe Lisa’s memory, and Ben’s. He has to believe they’re happier that way, that they don’t even notice anything’s missing.

“Do it,” he says, and Cas is already reaching toward him. “But Cas,” he adds quickly, “don’t make it permanent. Wake me up after awhile.” All Dean wants is a short rest, a time out. He can’t commit to erasing his entire life – to erasing _Sam_ \- for good.

‘Of course,” Cas says, and touches two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

  
**3.**  
to keep from falling, sinking, forming a deposit, etc., as if by hanging: _to suspend solid particles in a liquid._  


_______

Dean reads. He reads mysteries and crime thrillers, and a collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories. He reads the dictionary. He reads seventeen Stephen King novels in chronological order, and then starts again at the beginning. The bookshelf in his cottage is small, but Dean doesn’t mind; he never remembers very much, so he can re-read the same book over and over without getting bored. It passes the time.

Once in awhile he goes to the kitchen and makes himself something to eat. He never really feels hungry, but it seems like the right thing to do. He makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, boils spaghetti and dumps on some canned tomato sauce. That’s all he ever finds in his cupboards, but Dean doesn’t mind the lack of variety.

He sits in front of the fire, on an old couch upholstered in brown corduroy. The seat cushions are well-worn, and Dean’s not sure if it’s him who broke them in, or whoever owned the couch before him. Did anyone own the couch before him? Those kinds of questions occur to him occasionally, but he never worries about them for long.

Cas comes to visit sometimes, Dean’s not really sure how often. Dean’s always glad to see him, even though he’s usually tired, and cold, and kind of weird when he shows up. Dean makes him take off his coat and sit by the fire, and Cas tells Dean stories. Dean gets the impression he doesn’t usually talk much, because sometimes he stumbles over his words, or loses his train of thought, or changes the subject mid-sentence, but Dean doesn’t mind. He likes the sound of Cas’ voice.

When he’s not telling stories, Cas likes to play games. There’s a shelf in Dean’s broom closet full of board games. The boxes are old and faded, torn and taped back together in places, but most of them are only missing a few pieces. When the instructions are missing Dean makes up the rules and cheats shamelessly, but he doesn’t think Cas minds. It all works out okay except for the times when Cas touches the game pieces and they turn to black ash under his hand, and even then he apologizes. Plus there are always more games in the closet.

 

 

“What’s wonderful about bees is that they all know their places,” Cas says during one visit. His coat is hanging by the door, and he’s perched gingerly on the sofa next to Dean, like he’s afraid it might collapse under his weight. “Each individual bee has a job to do and just does it, without question or hesitation.”

Something about that seems wrong to Dean, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. “I don’t know,” he says, keeping his tone neutral. Insects are Cas’ favourite subject, and he doesn’t want to offend him.

“Their existence is simple and purposeful,” Cas insists, voice full of longing. He fiddles with the playing cards he’s holding. The cards belong to Cas, not Dean. On days when Dean’s board games crumble under Cas’ touch they play Go Fish and War and sometimes poker, though Cas is really bad at any game that requires him to lie.

“But it sounds so boring,” Dean objects. “Life can’t ever really _mean_ anything if you never have to make any choices.”

Cas looks tired and sad, and Dean wants him to feel better, so he sets aside his hand of cards and reaches forward to catch Cas by the plastic bracelet he wears around his wrist. He tugs Cas closer, and when Cas turns to face him, eyes full of questions, Dean kisses him carefully on the mouth. His lips are soft and his breath is hot, and Dean can’t remember his heart ever beating this fast before.

When they break apart so Dean can breathe, Cas looks first awed, and then alarmed. He gets up quickly from the couch, and the cushion where he was sitting is layered with black ash, half disintegrated beneath him.

“Oops,” Dean jokes, but he’s not concerned. He can always flip the cushion over. Cas, however, isn’t listening to him. Instead, he’s over by the door, hand stuffed in the pocket of his coat, searching for something. When he crosses the room back to Dean, he’s holding a small plastic bag about a third full of golden liquid.

“Taste this,” Cas orders, dipping his finger in the liquid and holding it out to Dean. His voice is low and louder than Dean’s used to, and he obeys before he even realizes what he’s doing.

The honey is so strong and sweet and _real_ it startles him, overwhelms him and makes him a bit dizzy. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again the fire is gone, the cottage is gone. He and Cas are standing in the blue-green forest, surrounded by a circle of menacing red eyes, and something is howling in the distance.

“Oh,” Dean says. He misses Sam.

Cas shoves the bag of honey back into his pocket, and leads the way through the forest and back to the cave.

 

 

“You woke me up,” Dean says. They’ve been sitting in silence long enough for it to form a nearly impenetrable wall between them. It takes all of Dean’s willpower to make his tongue form words.

“You asked me to,” Cas replies. “I thought it was time.”

“Because I kissed you?” Dean asks. Wall of silence broken, he suddenly wants very badly to talk about something other than bees or the rules of poker.

Cas nods, without looking at Dean. He pulls one of his blue flowers out of his pockets, and begins to pluck its petals off, one by one.

He’s clearly uncomfortable, so Dean tries to set him at ease. “What are the flowers called?” he asks.

A half-smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ mouth. “Forget-me-nots,” he says.

The laughter bubbles up in Dean’s chest, bursting out of him louder than he means for it to. It echoes off the stone walls around them, filling the entire cave. Outside, something caws in surprise.

“Cas,” Dean says. “Cas, come here.”

He does, and this time the kiss isn’t gentle at all.

 

 

“How long did you put me under for?” Dean asks idly.

“I don’t know,” Cas says. He sits up and finds his coat, drapes it across both of them. Dean has pulled his pants up, but his shirt is still somewhere across the cave, and his skin is dotted with goosebumps from the cold. “There’s no way to mark the passage of time here.”

Dean slides over a few inches, turning to lie on his side. He drapes one arm across Cas’ chest, presses his cold nose into curve where his throat meets his shoulder. There’s a dark bruise forming there and Dean really likes that, likes that he’s left his mark in a world where nothing’s real, likes that he’s sucked and bitten it into Cas’ flesh.

He has an idea. “Next time you amnesia-whammy me,” he says, “bring me back once this is gone.” He presses against the bruise on Cas’ neck. “You can check your reflection with my knife.”

“Very clever,” Cas says. “How resourceful.”

“I was a boy scout for about two weeks,” Dean says with a smile.

He holds out for as long as he can, and only lets Cas put him back to ‘sleep’ when his stomach starts cramping with pain.

 

Dean makes it all the way to ‘S’ in the dictionary, sitting cross-legged by the fireplace, before Cas gives him another taste of honey.

 

 

“It doesn’t seem fair that I get to go to peaceful dreamland while you have to stay here, awake,” Dean says against Cas’ skin, after sucking a bruise into the skin over his hipbone..

“I don’t feel hunger,” Cas says. “And I don’t feel pain. Besides, I consider it my penance.”

“For me?” Dean says.

“For you and for Sam. The amnesia is for you, but when I wake you up again it’s for him. To make sure you’ll never forget him.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, softly. “But you have to know I forgive you, right?”

Cas kisses Dean twice. “Do you?” he says. “Then this has all been worth it.” He puts two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

 

 

Dean wins thirteen consecutive games of Snakes and Ladders before he stops counting so as not to make Cas feel bad. Cas counters by winning thirty-two consecutive rounds of chess before Dean gives up and suggests they play Twister.

 

 

“It’s all a lie, isn’t it?” Dean says, taste of honey still on his tongue. He’s tried to keep track of how many times they’ve done this, but everything feels like déjà vu. “The whole idea that Purgatory is a waiting room.”

Cas steps over a tree root without even looking down. He has this route memorized. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, “my security clearance never went up that high. I know Purgatory is a non-place, somewhere that shouldn’t even exist, where we keep the souls Heaven and Hell won’t take. Occasionally, a human soul not quite evil enough for Hell is supposed to be sent here after death, to wait for their sin to…dissipate.”

“And did any of them ever make it to Heaven?”

“Not that I ever met, personally. There were rumours.”

“But no evidence? Yeah, they were definitely lying to you, dude.” Dean scoffs. “I swear, Heaven and Hell are just two sides of the same coin.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Cas admits. “Vampires, werewolves and the like are going to spend eternity here. Why not do the same to the humans? Keeps them out of the way.”

“Brutal,” Dean mutters, clambering up the moss-covered rocks near the entrance to their cave and stepping carefully over the line of hoodoo powder.

“You seem happy enough,” Cas says with a smirk. He’s already teleported into the cave.

“Only when I don’t know any better!” Dean insists. “Only when I forget I’m still alive, when I can’t remember who I am.”

“Who are you?” Cas says into Dean’s ear, pressing him back against the rough stone wall of the cave. He’s already undoing the fly of Dean’s jeans with nimble fingers.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean says. “Son of John Winchester and Mary Campbell. I’m a hunter, and so is my kid brother Sam.”

“Very good,” Cas says indulgently, already falling to his knees.

“You’re my angel sidekick Castiel, and you’re about to suck my cock,” Dean says, grinning down at him.

“Lucky you,” Cas answers.

  
**4.**  
to hold or keep undetermined; refrain from forming or concluding definitely: _to suspend one's judgment._  


_______

“So this is forever,” Cas says into the dark.

Dean groans. He hates it when Cas gets existential post-orgasm. It makes it harder for him to hang on to his buzz, to stave off the hunger pains. “Shut up.”

“This is important,” Cas says. He pushes his coat off of them, ignoring the way Dean squawks in protest against the cold.

“No it’s not,” Dean says. “And you look ridiculous crawling naked in the dirt.”

Cas ignores him, rifling through the pockets of the coat until he finds the bag of honey. It’s nearly empty now, with just a thin, sticky film left at the bottom. “See, we’re almost out of honey!”

“You have come on your stomach,” Dean says casually. “Come over here so I can lick it off.”

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“I take you seriously, I just don’t get what the big deal is. If you can’t use the honey to wake me up just start talking about Sam or something. That’ll snap me out of it real quick.”

“It’s not that,” Cas says. “It’s that I never give you more than a drop or two when I wake you up. And on Earth it would take days, maybe a week for a bruise to fade. How many times have we done this? Hundreds, maybe thousands of times!”

“If your goal was to thoroughly depress me,” Dean deadpans, “you’ve succeeded. Got any kittens you want to kick?”

“No, I do not have a kitten,” Cas says, his voice high-pitched. “Neither of us will ever see a kitten again!”

Oh my god, okay, okay!” Dean says. He crawls over to Cas, straddles his stomach and pins him down by the shoulders. “You’re freaking out.”

“Of course I’m freaking out. We are stuck in Purgatory for all eternity!”

“Shhh,” Dean says, trying to remember the way Sam had soothed some of the more hysterical monster victims they’d rescued. “Think about the bees. Bees always make you feel better.”

“I do not give a _shit_ about the bees,” Cas says. “How can you be so calm about this?”

“Well, because I had my mental breakdown about a hundred hickeys ago, if you’ll remember. It seems we’re just now reaching the end of your angelic patience.”

Cas goes oddly still beneath Dean, and closes his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks after a moment.

“Trying to meditate,” Cas answers.

“Is it working?”

“No.”

Dean sighs and presses two fingers against Cas’ forehead, echo of the countless times Cas has done the same to him. “Can I tell you what helps me?” he says.

Cas nods.

“It _does_ freak me out, more than you can imagine. I’m upset that I’ll never eat a bacon cheeseburger again, never listen to music, never drive my car. More than everything else combined I’m upset about leaving Sam. Last time I was gone he didn’t cope very well. I’m guilty and I’m angry and I’m really fucking _sad_ about all of that Cas, but you know what? There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Cas exhales sharply.

“I can’t have Sam or cheeseburgers or my car here, but I do have you. And so as much as I possibly can, Cas, _you’re_ what I think about. We’re the only two things that are real around here. We’re the things that don’t belong – a matched set – and we’ll never be alone.” Dean removes his fingers from Cas’ forehead.

“Thank you,” Cas says softly.

“So stop being such a headcase,” Dean says fondly.

“I love you,” Cas says.

“Shut up,” Dean says in response, but his smile is answer enough. “Where do you want your hickey? Have we done one on the back of your right knee yet?”

 

The thing about forever is that you never know when it’s going to end. Which is why Dean is pretty surprised when a giant black hole opens up in the middle of his cabin during a particularly intense round of Monopoly.

“Um,” Dean says, as the entire cabin collapses around them in a truly dramatic cloud of black ash. It feels like being doused with cold water. Even the howls, growls and cackles in the woods are startled into silence.

“That’s new,” Cas says. He gets to his feet and offers a hand up to Dean. Once standing, Dean doesn’t let go.

“You think they decided to let us into Heaven?” Dean says.

“I don’t see any pearly gates,” Cas says skeptically. “That was a joke. Heaven doesn’t have any pearly gates. That’s a mistranslation.”

“Good to know. Should we maybe try going through that hole before it closes?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Cas answers. He squeezes Dean’s hand.

“Don’t forget your coat,” Dean says. Cas throws it over one shoulder, and together they step into the darkness.

All they leave behind is a single blue forget-me-not, fallen from Cas’ pocket.

  
**5.**  
to defer or postpone: _to suspend sentence on a convicted person._  


_______

“Wake up,” says a familiar voice. “Dean, wake up!”

Dean comes to consciousness very, very slowly. Everything seems too bright, and trying to open his eyes hurts. When he finally manages it, he can hardly believe what he’s seeing.

“Sammy,” he says, voice coming out a pathetic croak.

“Yeah, Dean. It’s me.”

Dean sits up and looks around. He’s sprawled on someone’s carpet in a comfortable-looking living room. There are other people around – Cas, looking a bit dazed, that prophet kid, Meg, looking down at him skeptically, and a vaguely familiar brunette Dean has trouble placing. – but Dean keeps looking back at Sam. His Sam.

He looks different. There are new lines in his forehead, and though Dean’s glad to see the kid’s finally cut his hair short, there are a few grey hairs near his temples. “What happened to you?” Dean says.

“What?” Sam asks. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“Your hair,” Dean says.

“Oh,” Sam says. “I cut it. Four years ago. Dean, you’ve been gone for almost five years now.”

It actually doesn’t come as that much of a surprise. “Took you long enough to rescue me,” Dean quips.

“Had to make sure I had a strong enough containment spell first, to keep everything but you in. Also needed to convince Death to recreate a lunar eclipse that only happens once every three-hundred years, _plus_ defeat an entire army of leaderless yet still pretty unkillable Leviathans, but yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Well, I have to say I’m proud of you, little brother,” Dean says, letting Sam help him to his feet.

“Actually, you haven’t aged a day since you left so _technically_ you’re the little brother now.”

“Never,” Dean hisses. “Hey, who’s the chick?”

“Meg?” Sam says.

“No, the _actual_ chick.”

“Sarah Blake,” Sam says. “We saved her from a haunted painting like, ten years ago, remember? Also, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Nicely done, Sammy,” Dean whispers.

“And to you, judging by the state of Cas.” Dean looks over, panicked, and yes, there is an impressive hickey on the side of his neck.

“I can explain,” he says quickly. “That’s actually a time-measurement strategy.”

“Sure,” Sam says with a wink. “Whatever you say.”

“Hey listen,” Meg announces, too loud, “not to interrupt this magical family reunion, but I’m out. You ever ask me for my help again, Sam Winchester, and I’ll send Hell Hounds after you.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“You’re Queen of Hell!” Cas says from his spot on a nearby couch. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” Meg says dryly. “I’m glad you’re not dead and that the two of you have finally consummated your love.”

“Thank you, Meg. Dean and I appreciate your support,” Cas says brightly.

“He doesn’t speak for me,” Dean sputters. “He doesn’t!” he repeats when Sam snickers, but Meg has already disappeared.

“Hey,” Dean says in the direction of Kevin and Sarah, feeling suddenly exposed and unused to social interaction.

“Hey yourself,” Sarah replies.

“I did _not_ think that was actually going to work,” Kevin murmurs.

A silence descends on the room, the kind that follows the realization that the one thing you’ve been waiting for for what feels like forever has finally happened.

“Well,” Sam finally says. “How about a tour of our new headquarters? Don’t worry, I haven’t changed a thing about the car.”

Dean’s stomach growls loudly, and Cas snorts.

“Actually,” Dean says, “do you think we could grab a burger first?”


End file.
